Sherlock strolled down the familiar street, drinking in his home. The windows deep-set in the brick walls, made in varying shades of brown. Different shutters, curtains and blinds blocking the views into the flats. The pavement as grey as everything else in London, sibling stone arches above the different doors, all of it diverse and identical all at the same time. And everything so, so obvious, all the little details telling him everything.
The woman next door - her cat was ill. The man on the opposite side of the street - he hadn't changed his oil in two years and one of his tyres was flat. It was a miracle he could still afford the flat, Sherlock thought. Or, rather, his ailing wife, who had recently inherited a large sum of money and was currently showing symptoms of being slowly poisoned with... cyanide? No, he'd have to take a closer look to figure out the specifics.
The wind blew softly, flapping Sherlock's coat about him and providing the desired air of mystery. To him it seemed nothing in the world could possibly go wrong. Mrs Hudson would be delighted to see him. She would welcome him in and he would be home again. It would be as if he had never left, much less made everyone who loved him believe he was dead...
The smell from Speedy's drifted through the early morning air, their first round of baking done and sitting on the counters to cool before they opened. The freshly chopped lettuce, already headed into the massive fridges that filled the far back wall of the pantry, was scenting the air as well, giving the bread and the street an earthy, healthy odor.
Sherlock shook his head. Not important, he thought. Focus on the mission.
The door to 221B Baker Street was still a beautiful deep shade of green, but the brass knocker needed a good shine. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he fogged it with a breath and scrubbed vigorously with his sleeve. Only then did he pick up the handle and give it a few good knocks. He waited for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
He knew Mrs. Hudson would be awake. She always was at this hour. She liked to get her cleaning done early, so that when her favourite programme came on, she would be able to watch the whole thing.
Sure enough, there was a clatter on the stairs. Even two years later, the sound of her high heels on the carpeted stairs was unmistakable.
As the door opened he clasped his hands behind his back and looked off down the street, the picture of innocence, as if he had left his key inside. Truth be told, he had lost the key somewhere along the way, as he wore it on a chain round his neck. It had broken somewhere in Chicago, following a lead in the United States.
The shrill scream that echoed from the doorway rang down Baker Street was heard by everyone, making birds take flight into the early morning air. Sherlock's grin only grew wider.
…
Gregory Lestrade had never forgiven himself for his decision to question Sherlock. He never would. It had been two years, and still the guilt crushed down on him, sometimes waking him in the middle of the night, or making him lose his appetite during a meal. It would set in suddenly and control him for the next few hours. All he could think of during those times were his words, written in blood on the pavement outside St. Bart's.
He was a broken man, but his grief was nothing compared to Anderson's.
Anderson had gone further than guilt; madness had overtaken his mind. After the events at St. Bart's, he had become a recluse, rarely coming into work and avoiding Donovan at all costs. She wasn't particularly interested in speaking to him, either, knowing she was just as responsible.
Lestrade supposed he did blame the two for St. Bart's, in a way. It certainly wouldn't have happened without them.
Lestrade was called back to reality as the gust of a passing car nipped at his heels, reminding him of where he was: on his way to meet Anderson. The man had said he had something important to tell the detective inspector, saying it was urgent.
As Lestrade approached the coffee cart where they were to meet, Anderson stepped out of the crowd. He looked even more bedraggled than the last time Lestrade had seen him; his beard had grown longer and rougher, and so had his hair. Both were almost as grey as Lestrade's own hair. His eyes were wild and frightened as they reflexively searched the crowd around him; Lestrade knew he was looking for Sherlock. In spite of the glaring evidence, Anderson still believed that Sherlock was alive.
"Afternoon, Anderson," Lestrade called as he moved away from the coffee cart.
Anderson flinched and stared around, then relaxed a bit when he spotted Lestrade. His face settled into a dopey grin as he jogged over, his old windbreaker unzipped and flapping behind him.
"Wait 'til you hear this, Detective Inspector-" Anderson said breathlessly, pulling up a few feet away as Lestrade cut him off.
"Again, Phillip?" Lestrade rolled his eyes, and sighed as he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. "Every week, every meeting, it's another theory or explanation. It's getting ridiculous."
Anderson's face fell, looking remarkably childish, as a deep voice sounded behind Lestrade.
"Afternoon, boys."
Anderson's eyes widened until Lestrade was sure they were going to fall out of his head. Lestrade turned around, and almost dropped his coffee. There he was, speak of the devil.
Sherlock Holmes himself.
